1914
by BinaryRocks
Summary: Ivan didn't ask to be insane. He didnt ask to go to war. He didn't ever ask for any of it.


Warning: Blood, Violence, Insanity, Drinking, and all of the _lovely_ things that come from the Russian trench warfare. Omniscient 3rd person.

I don't own Hetalia, nor do I know who does.

I love Ivan! In a fangirl sense, which is the reason why I wrote this.

Ivan= Russia

Natalya= Belarus

Katyusha= Ukraine

**Austria, 1914, World War I**

Ivan leaned back against the trench wall, getting mud in his pale hair. He let out a sigh, barely audible over the gun-fire. A bullet hit a nearby machine gunner in the head, splattering blood and bone everywhere. Ivan pulled a shard of skull out of his cheek, slightly disgusted. The two others manning the gun pulled the corpse out of the way, back to the ever-growing pile behind the trenches. He was far too used to this after only five weeks in the trenches; five long, muddy, cold, wet, death-filled, traumatic weeks. He began wondering how long he would survive. According to the general, he had been here longer than expected, especially since he was one of the few to survive an assault on the Austrians trenches. Granted that that involved crawling behind the broken corpses of his comrades, as he, and few other survivors of the assault, tried to get back to the relative safety of the trench. He watched as a new team of three men picked up the fallen machine gun, one of the few they had. Ivan handed them a nearby ammunition belt, not wanting to kill more people than he had already. He sat back down, waiting for nothing in particular. Another man nearby fell down from a bullet or two to the heart, one of his comrades dragging him off. Ivan got up, grabbing the rifle. He began firing, ducking behind the trench, reloading, firing. Five minutes passed. An officer came and moved the machine gun, leaving the men with nothing to do. Ten minutes passed. The men had given Ivan their bullets. Fifteen minutes. _Don't think, just fight._ Twenty. _Don't think, just fight._ Twenty-five. _Fire, reload, fire. Don't think. Fire, reload, fire, reload, fire, reload, fire._ Ivan's shoulder shattered with the impact of a bullet. His cry of pain as he hit the ground let the men around him know he was still alive. Two of them began carrying him to the makeshift medical "tent" in the third trench back, while the other picked up the rifle. Ivan thought of his sisters, Natalya and Katyusha, and of when they were young, all the carefree days. He brought his uninjured hand up to the scarf that Katyusha had given him, her bright smile when he put it on, Natalya's pouting face accompanying the smile. He groaned when he was set down, knowing that the medic wouldn't be there for a while. He turned his head to look at his shoulder, seeing blood flowing over the shattered bones, staining his coat red, the sheets red, his scarf red, his skin, _red, red, red, red,!_ He quickly turned his head to the side, breathing hard. He listened to the sound of explosions, muffled by the sandbag roof, the sound of his comrades' dying screams, barely audible back where he was. He saw an unopened bottle of vodka on the table beside him. He reached for it, desperately hoping the alcohol would take the pain and the cold away, not knowing if it would, or even if he would survive until tomorrow. Days passed. His shoulder healed. More vodka. Weeks passed. Ivan was back in the trench. More vodka. A year. He barely remembered anything except vodka, gunfire, explosions, cold, and blood. Another long year. More blood, more vodka, more death, more laughing. Laughing as he fired the rifle, laughing as the bullets ripped through the air, through him, laughing as the explosions rocked the battlefield, laughing as he stabbed enemy soldiers, as the blood sprayed everywhere. _Constantly laughing!_ Another year. More of the same. They pulled out, left the war, went home. Ivan was hugged by his sisters when he came home. He barely said anything, instead opted to drink. After a while Katyusha asked him what was wrong. And he laughed. A hysterical laugh. Natalya asked him. He said he was fine, both of them knowing that he wasn't.


End file.
